


I Used To

by YourTrueNemesis



Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: M/M, Post-Break Up, Prompt Fill, This was... a long time coming, Well... I mean Tailor is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 15:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourTrueNemesis/pseuds/YourTrueNemesis
Summary: It had started simply enough. A routine trip, a quick jaunt for supplies and some repairs to his jacket. Out of everyone he could have run into, everyone he could have seen. It had to be Magnus.It always had to be Magnus.





	I Used To

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spicycronch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicycronch/gifts).



> My half of our fic trade, veeeeery late because I have things like school to do. Prompt was: "Didn't you used to dance?"

The brilliant colors and lights of the market may be headache inducing or overstimulating to some, but to RGB, the sensory overload is comforting in a strange way. Barkers screech from stalls, advertising hands and feet, feelings and memories. Other, more obscure stalls offer different tastes for the inside of your mouth, syringes full of liquid hilarity, and dark powders in clear bags.  
A three headed butterfly hawks, new endings to old books, a humanoid deer brandishes vials of luck at passers by, a clarinet with legs plays music notes at customers, roughly translating the labels of identical boxes indistinguishable from one another except by scribbles in a long (almost) forgotten language.  
Softly glowing lamps and brightly colored lanterns illuminate the thoroughfare in halos of visibility, each aura a different filter with which to look at the hovering jars of eyes, the pouches of brightly jingling accessories, and bundles of loose limbs that clutter the marketplace.  
This, more than any place else in the world, is where RGB feels he truly belongs. Among the mottled masses, empty shells, unfinished sketches.  
He feels safe here. Able to fade in.  
Felt safe.  
The market is wonderful and brilliant and safe but right here, right now in Cell-any’s emporium it’s anything but.  
It had started simply enough. A routine trip, a quick jaunt for supplies and some repairs to his jacket. Out of everyone he could have run into, everyone he could have seen. It had to be Magnus.  
It always had to be Magnus.  
Magnus was sitting there, floating several inches above an overstuffed armchair, legs crossed and suit and coat perfectly ironed, not a single crease signifying wear or tear. Tailor would be proud, RGB thinks absentmindedly, trying to look anywhere but at the perfectly poised man who’s pointedly not noticed him yet.  
Things are always difficult with Magnus.  
They didn’t used to be. There was a time of late nights and soft laughter, simple touches and small gestures. But that was then. This is now. And RGB can’t stand it.  
He stares determinitley at the toes of his shoes, ignoring the very real desire he has to immediately leave the room.  
But they still have his coat, and as much as he’d like to, he can’t leave without it, he’s already paid for the repairs after all.  
Music drifts in from the open door of the shop, something tinny and soft, with a phonographic quality. It’s most definitely a waltz, that much he can tell, with a violin and cello playing harmony, with the occasional riff from a piano. If he concentrates hard enough he can hear -or maybe imagine- the warble of french horns in the background. It sounds a bit like Melody on a particularly pleasant day.  
Without really thinking about it, he starts to tap the toes of his shoes against the floor in time with the, one two three, two two three, beat of the waltz. His cane joins in soon after, clicking the wooden tip along with the first beat of every soft measure.  
Eventually, the cane finds its way tucked beneath his arm, and his soft gloved fingers conduct an imaginary orchestra. And that’s all it takes. It’s never taken much really, performance is in his blood, and the music is loud in his ears and he finds himself stepping around the room in one two three, two two three, timing. His arms cradle themselves around an invisible partner, spinning them past display racks and workstations. At one point he picks Tailor up from their workstation, twirling them in a circle before tipping his hat and leaving them to their alterations.  
He’s happy. Because the music is loud in his head, and the lights of Cell-any’s kind of look like spotlights if you squint your eyes, and the one two three, two two three, is at just the perfect speed and-  
And he’s standing in front of Magnus. Magnus, standing now, up from his chair, floating those damnable extra inches off the ground, never failing to make RGB feel smaller than his five foot five.  
RGB steps backward, out of the panicked bubble Magnus just created. RGB’s brain short circuits for a moment, struggling to come up with something to say. And somewhere in the recesses of his struggling brain he comes up with,  
“What’s the matter? As I recall you used to dance yourself.” There’s a pregnant pause, and RGB briefly wonders if he can physically sink into the floor, or maybe just run away as fast as he can. But before he can consider pivoting on his heels, Magnus speaks up, in a quiet, stilted voice.  
“I used to do a lot of things…”

\-------------------------------

The patter of the rain of the roof tiles provides a soft sort of haze, even inside the room. RGB had personally made sure all the windows were sealed the minute he had heard rain was expected for that evening. All the curtains have been drawn as well, so RGB doesn’t even have to look at the offending drops of water.  
He’s sitting in a hard wooden chair, the cushion not really doing its job. His foot taps anxiously against the tiled floor, the tapping of the sole of his shoe at such a speed that he can barely hear the sound of the rain.  
He’s reading… or… attempting to at the very least. His eyes must have scanned the same three paragraphs at least eleven times. He doesn’t even know what they’re about, he caught a few stray words, and, if, the… but nothing really stuck.  
A hand lands on his shoulder, startling him. His cane clatters to the floor from where it was resting against the table, his knee having jostled the table when he jumped. A quiet chuckle, and RGB turns around, to find Magnus just behind him.  
“Come on dear one, let’s dance.”  
“Dance?” RGB sputters, “But there’s no music! And since when did you dance?” Magnus only chuckles once more, pulling RGB to his feet. He keeps a hold on RGB with one gloved hand, fingers linking together, and makes his way over to the phonograph, setting the needle down on an old scratched record.  
Waltz music fills the room, loud enough to drown out the pitter patter of the rain.  
“Of course I can dance RGB.” He puts his remaining hand at RGB’s waist, leading them in a simple box step around the room.  
“I don’t understand,” RGB says, “Why you insist on hovering, even while we dance, boggles my mind.” Magnus huffs a laugh and spins RGB under his arm.  
“I suppose you’ll just have to deal with it then.”  
RGB forgets all about the rain.

\-------------------------------

Magnus is still standing there, still floating too tall in front of RGB. And RGB takes another step back.  
“I suppose you did.”


End file.
